Alvin and the Shining
by squitteroo
Summary: Pop sensation Alvin and the Chipmunks are in a rut, musically speaking. Surely going to an old hotel in the mountains will be just the thing for writer's block! NIVLA! NIVLA!
1. Chapter 1

**ALVIN AND THE SHINING**

_My friend the witch doctor, he taught me what to say_

_My friend the witch doctor, he taught me what to do_

_I know that you'll be mine when I say this to you._

_-Dave Seville_

**1**

"STOP!" screamed Alvin.

Alvin's brothers, Simon and Theodore, stopped singing and shrank away from the microphone. The door to the studio swung open and Sylvia, the recording engineer, came rushing in.

"What's wrong, Alvin?" she asked. "That was a terrific take! Your harmonies…"

"The take was garbage," Alvin said. "This whole song is garbage." The young chipmunk hopped off his wooden stool and began pacing the studio. Unable to express his feelings, he took off his baseball cap and threw it at a plastic trash can.

"Alvin," sighed Simon, adjusting his glasses, "_you_ wrote the song. I thought it was good, it reminded me of our last hit…"

"Of _course_ it reminded you of our last hit, Simon. It's the same stuff. All about us being chipmunks, here to sing for you, blah blah blah."

"Personally," interjected Sylvia, "I think it's good to keep playing up the chipmunk thing. It's what sets you apart from the pack!"

Alvin closed his eyes and counted to ten. This again. People never wanted to ask him about his songwriting. They fixated on his _adorable pink nose _or his _precious teeth._

True, the reviews of their debut album had been positive. "Fawning!" Sylvia had said, but Alvin didn't want to be fawned over. He wanted to be respected. The adjectives the media used – "original," "unique," "charming" – all seemed to be polite ways to say NOVELTY. After getting physically sick while hearing "We're the Chipmunks" on the radio for the _n_th time, Alvin vowed that he would return to the studio and record a masterpiece that would blow everyone's mind.

Except he couldn't. He had been recording for three weeks now, and everything he touched turned to plastic. His lyrics were derivative, his licks were uninspired, and his vision was nonexistent. If he didn't step up his game, Alvin and the Chipmunks were going to be a one-hit wonder.

Alvin realized that Sylvia had been speaking to him, something about the tracks just needing "a little more polish." He cut her off.

"The tracks don't need more polish, the tracks need to be scrapped. Dave! Come in here!"

A moment's pause, and then Chipmunks manager Dave Seville walked into the room. He was a thin, dark-haired man in his late thirties, dressed in a polo shirt and ketchup-stained shorts. Fame had been as bad to him as it had been to Alvin; he had dark bags under his eyes and a rough mess of stubble on his chin. "What is it, Alvin?"

Simon sighed. "Alvin's being a perfectionist, Dave. He's fixating on this platonic ideal of a perfect album, rather than embracing the music that we're actually making."

Alvin shot his lanky brother an angry look. "I'm not a perfectionist! But come on, Dave! You used to want to be a rock star! Are you happy about producing this cookie-cutter pop fluff?"

Dave got a faraway look in his eye. Dave, Alvin knew, used to play lead guitar in a hard rock group, The Scatmen. They had been on the verge of making it big, but around the release of their hit album_, _three chipmunk babies had shown up in a basket outside Dave's door. Suddenly a guardian of three low-on-the-food-chain animals, Dave found the life of a touring musician impossible to maintain. He left The Scatmen and turned his energy towards his wards.

Alvin knew that Dave had no real regrets – he consistently spoke of his pride that his rodent protégés had broken into the Billboard Top 100. But Alvin also knew that Dave believed in Rock and Roll, and that his fear of being perceived as a sell-out was as great as Alvin's.

"You know what you need," said Dave slowly. "You need to be away from the pressure that comes with being a star. Go old school; get an 8-track recorder, go out into the woods and just write in nature."

Alvin's face lit up. "Yeah! That's what I'm talking about! None of this "polish"...we're gonna record a real, honest album!"

"Out in the woods?" squeaked Theodore. He was the youngest and most sensitive of the chipmunks. His green eyes were wide. "Aren't there...w-w-wolves...in the woods?"

"I'm not talking about living in a tent, Theodore," Dave said. "We'd find a nice place...in fact, you know what? I have an old friend who's going to be caretaker at a Colorado hotel this winter. It'll be closed to guests, but I'm sure it would no problem if we would join him!"

"Actually, that does sound nice," said Simon. "I've had a hard time finding time to read since we became famous. A little solitude would be welcome."

"Colorado! Wow!" said Alvin. He could see himself now, skiing the Rocky Mountains in the day, returning in the evening to write, and staying up late in the night to

(!_HIDE)_

record.

Alvin blinked. Where had that thought come from? He looked over at Theodore's uncertain face and for just a second, his happy dreams were stirred by a touch of fear, as if he was swimming on a sunny lake and had just felt something cold graze his leg.

"Ok, it's settled," Dave was saying. "I'll give Jack a call."

He left the room. Sylvia followed him, protesting furiously. Simon went to Theodore's side, trying to reassure him. And Alvin was alone with his thoughts.

_This is good, Alvin. Make your mark, and nobody will ever fawn over your "cute nose" ever again. _

_You're going to be a smash._


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

The tour of the Overlook Hotel had only been going on for twenty minutes, but to Theodore, it felt like hours. His legs were short and his tummy was large, and to keep up with his brothers, Dave, and the hotel caretaker, he nearly had to run. The caretaker, a sandy-haired man named Jack Torrance, seemed nice enough, but he kept making jokes that Theodore didn't understand and talking about rooms that Theodore didn't care about.

"Yeah, we've been here about three weeks now," caretaker Jack was saying to Dave as they stopped outside the kitchen. "It's been good, but I'm glad that you finally showed up. You get a little stir crazy with just the wife and kid around, you know?"

"I sort of know," said Dave, smirking at Alvin in a way that Theodore didn't understand. "You see any rooms that you think would be good for recording?"

"Hell if I know anything about acoustics, but you're welcome to claim one of the hotel rooms. Just clean up after yourself. The owners don't know I'm letting you stay here."

"You hear that, Alvin?" asked Dave. "No bubble gum wrappers lying around."

"No acorn shells, either," said Jack.

Simon rolled his eyes. "Oh, of course, because _all _chipmunks love acorns. Traffick in stereotypes much?"

Jack's eyes narrowed, and Theodore thought they looked a little pink. "No hard feelings, champ! I'm learning as I go. Now! Who wants to see the old ballroom?"

The thought of trudging through another series of rooms was too much. Theodore raised a paw. "Mr. Jack? My feet hurt and I was wondering if there's a place where I could just play for a little bit?"

"C'mon, Theo," said Alvin. "We need you to help us scout for places to record."

"I'm not…"_ (keep your voice strong Theodore you're not a baby) _"I'm not as interested in that stuff as you guys, and I just want to play for a little. Mr. Jack said that there was a playground..."

"There sure is," said Jack, pointing. "Can you get out to the main lobby? From there, just go out the front doors and you'll be able to see it."

"I think I can find it," said Theodore, though inwardly he wasn't so sure. He had only been at the hotel for a morning, after all, and there was a terrible sameness to the rooms and halls that made him feel like he was walking in place. But then he thought of playing outside and how sweet that would be.

"Alright, Theodore, we'll catch up with you there," said Dave. Theodore noticed that Dave didn't look at him as he said it. That troubled him. There was something sad about Dave recently, some look around his mouth that reminded Theodore of a child knocking over his own block tower.

Theodore wanted to ask Dave about it, but now wasn't the time; the group was already continuing on the tour. Simon gave him a brisk wave, Alvin made a face, and then they were around the next bend. Theodore turned around.

_Just pass the kitchen, go through this hallway, then past the staircase, and the lobby will be there_, thought Theodore. He began to plod forward, thinking of what they might eat for dinner in an attempt to ward off homesickness. Maybe mashed potatoes with melted butter on top? And he had seen some packets of macaroni and cheese in the kitchen! His stomach churned and he giggled at the low growling sound.

The hallway came to an end.

_No staircase, _thought Theodore. _There was a turn that I forgot. _Both left and right hallways now looked identical, beige papered walls lined with old wooden doors. He thought about turning around and searching for the group, but the thought of what they'd

_(baby, baby, lost little baby)_

say hardened his resolve and he picked left at random and began walking.

The soft growl came again and Theodore frowned. He hadn't felt his stomach move. With a chipmunk's instincts, he froze and listened. There was nothing but the hum of electric lights.

_Baby, baby, lost little baby_

"I'm gonna eat mashed topatoes tonight!" he cried to the silence. His high voice sounded like the squeak of a chew toy in a dog's mouth. Theodore took another step and heard the growl again, lower and louder.

_Something wild has gotten inside. Dave was wrong Dave was wrong there are WOLVES here and they want to GET me. _

Theodore began to run. The snarling sound now seemed everywhere, as if each door that Theodore passed contained some beast that was pulling at a chain, baying and yapping…

_No, not in the rooms. Around that corner. _

A corner was approaching and Theodore knew, he _knew _that there would be an open mouth beyond it, but he couldn't stop, his legs were moving on their own as if in a nightmare, and the growls were now howls and shrieks and in terror Theodore rounded the corner and collided into someone else.

It was a little boy, who stumbled backward as Theodore ran into him, but didn't fall. The boy smiled at Theodore, who felt his panic start to ease.

"Sorry," Theodore squeaked. "I thought I heard something."

"That's okay," said the boy. He looked no more than five, though he had a calm maturity in his eyes. He stuck out a chubby hand, and Theodore grasped it. "My name's Danny Torrance."

"Theodore."

"I'm going to the playground," Danny said. "Want to come?"

Theodore felt a huge sense of relief. "Yes, please. You have no idea how happy I am to have found you."

Danny cocked his head to the side. "I _do_ know, Theodore. Your mind was shouting. It was real loud."

"You can read minds?"

"My friend called it Shining," Danny said. He frowned. "I can't do it all the time, especially with grownups. But animals are easier. You might be able to do it too, if you try."

"I don't want to get inside anyone's head," said Theodore. "I'd be scared to…"

"You shouldn't be scared." Danny looked at Theodore with wide, earnest eyes. "Make yourself be brave, no matter what."

"The hotel wants you to be scared."


	3. Chapter 3

**3**

Simon pushed macaroni and cheese around his plate with a fork. They had been atthe Overlook hotel for three weeks now, and the limits to Dave's cooking skills had quickly become apparent. The three chipmunks sat around a metal table in the fluorescent kitchen, quietly chewing.

At first, Simon had welcomed the trip as a chance to relax and read, but he wasn't having much success on either count. He had quickly plowed through the Heidegger and Foucault he had brought, and now was reduced to rereading lightweight novels (currently browsing through Proust's _In Search of Lost Time_). He'd scoured the hotel in pursuit of new material, but his search had been fruitless thus far.

Simon wasn't getting mental stimulation from conversations, either. Alvin and Dave had converted a bedroom into a studio, and now spent all their time recording music. Simon had long since stopped trying to be part of the process, but he could still hear the squeals of electric guitars and feedback echo through the Overlook hallways. Even outside of the studio, the two weren't providing much company: Alvin was keeping to himself more than usual, and Dave just wanted to talk about "authentic rock sound," a subject that interested Simon not in the least.

Simon had even gone so far as to try chatting with his little brother Theodore, but Theodore was always playing with Danny (and Danny's invisible friend). The little ones were playing some game that involved mind reading, but of course Simon considered himself above such babyish activities. And so, inevitably, he was left alone. And bored. God, so bored!

The door to the kitchen swung open and Simon's heart sank. It was Jack. _Oh crud bunnies._

"Didn't I tell you," Jack snarled, advancing toward him, "to keep out of my personal writing? How am I supposed to get anything done if you pups keep messing up my pages?" His eyes were red, and there was a muscle in his cheek that was twitching. Simon had never before seen him this angry.

"Cool it, Jack," said Dave. "What makes you think it was one of my boys?"

"Paw prints!" said Jack. "Little grubby paw-prints all over my manuscript! And I know which one it was, too." He pointed at Simon. "The red one has been making a racket all day, and the green one was playing with Danny. That leaves you, Blue."

"We have names, jerk," Alvin snapped. "Don't just address us by the color of shirts we're wearing."

"He's right, though," Simon confessed. "I'm sorry, Mr. Torrance. I've just been looking for something to read, and I saw your typewriter with all those pages…" It hadn't even been worth his time to look, though: just a single sentence typed over and over. Probably it was some avant-garde thing, but Simon found it hacky.

"MY! PRIVATE! WORK!" yelled Jack. "That is NOT for you to paw through!"

"Wh-why don't you go the Hotel library, Simon?" asked Theodore. "I saw on a map that there's one close to the ballroom."

"You should have gone on the rest of the tour," said Jack. "The hotel library was damaged by a fire two years ago. Some kid was playing with matches, and all the books were lost. Some damn kid, just like you three DISRESPECTFUL LITTLE WHELPS."

Dave stood up. "Listen, man. You are completely out of line here! Do you know who you're talking to? This is Alvin and the Chipmunks! Grammy-award nominated, platinum-selling–"

"Shut up, Dave," said Jack. "I haven't listened to your stupid album, but if it's as awful as the garbage I keep hearing from your studio…"

Dave face grew dark, and in an instant, the two men were shouting at each other and pounding on the table. Simon took this as his cue to leave. He pushed back his chair and scampered for the door. Nobody seemed to notice in the ruckus.

_By Newton's beard_, thought Simon as he walked down the hallway, _what a bunch of Neanderthals I live with_. He was already ready to leave this lousy hotel, ready to return to a world of culture and stimulation, ready to get lost in a

_(library?)_

Simon stopped. Just across from the giant ballroom doors, there was a door he had never noticed before. It was made of old, dark wood, and had an elegant plaque that read "Library" in loopy cursive. Simon approached it with curiosity. Jack had said the room was shut off, but surely it wouldn't hurt to take a little peek inside? Just to help him imagine the library as it had once been?

He turned the cold brass doorknob and peeked inside. And gasped.

It was a beautiful old room, and it appeared to be completely intact. There were plush tan chairs, a dark mahogany table, thick maroon carpet on the floor, and a small steel chandelier that lit the room with warm electric light. There was a pleasant musty smell and a feeling of stillness and timelessness. And, most importantly, there were three enormous bookshelves that covered the walls.

"Egads!" yelped Simon with pleasure. It was beyond his wildest dreams. This wasn't some closet with a few Danielle Steel novels and a set of _Home and Garden_ magazines. This was a little museum of old, hardbound books, books that creaked when you opened them. Ecstatic, Simon hopped into the room and headed for the farthest shelf, craning his head sideways to read the titles.

He settled on a dusty red copy of Mary Shelley's _Frankenstein_. Happily, he hopped into a chair, scooted up to the table and began to read. It was just as he remembered it. Captain Robert Walton, exploring the arctic! Simon sighed. At last, he wasn't cooped up in an old hotel, but lost in the world of story!

This was the best Simon had felt in a week. Completely immersed, he feasted his mind on the story of Captain Walton, Dr. Victor, and the grotesque creation. Minutes went by, and Simon, for the first time in weeks, relaxed. (_But)_

But then he turned the page.

Page 217 was an illustration page of the type that one found in old books, a woodcut print with black ink. The illustration was a close-up of a face contorted in fear _(!) _– but how could it be that the page showed not the face of Dr. Frankenstein but of Simon's own?

It was him, there was no doubt about it. The round ears, the large oval spectacles, and the button nose were all sights Simon saw when he looked into a mirror. But when had his eyes ever been so wide and horrified, his mouth so tortured? Below the illustration, a caption read:

Chapter 3: In which Simon the little chipmunk screamed and screamed

Simon slammed the book closed, and covered his eyes. _It wasn't real, Simon. You dozed off and had a nightmare. _He was aware of his rapidly beating heart and so he tried to control his breathing, but before he was successful, he heard the whisper.

"Chapter One: in which Simon the little chipmunk came to the library all alone."

"Who's there?" shouted Simon. He stood up and looked around. He didn't see anyone. All four bookshelves were flush against the walls, there was no space for anyone to be hiding

_(four bookshelves? four walls? so where's the door, Simon?)_

Simon whirled around. Wall-to-wall bookshelves didn't make sense, he had come in here somehow, and at the moment he would give all the books in the world just to figure out where the door was–

"Chapter Two: in which Simon the little chipmunk began to hear a song."

"Where are you?" screamed Simon. "What do you want?"

"Simple Simon met a pie-man going to the fair," whispered the voice. "Said Simple Simon to the pie-man, 'let me taste your wares.'"

"Shut up!" shouted Simon, squinting his eyes shut. "Let me out of here!"

"Said the pie-man to Simple Simon, 'let me have your penny.' Said Simon to the pie-man–"

"LEAVE ME ALONE!" Simon yelled, and he knocked the book off the table to the carpet below. There was silence. Simon took a shuddering breath and forced his eyes open. There, directly in front of him, was the open door that led to the hallway. Why hadn't he seen it?

For a long while he looked at the door, afraid to move toward it. But the moments passed without sound or incident. And Simon found he was able to move again.

Whatever that had been, he didn't want to repeat it. He started toward the door, but realized he was leaving the book on the floor. _Better to hide it on the top shelf, where nobody will ever stumble across it._ He leaned down to grab the book and, as he did so, he looked under the table.

There was a body lying there, charred and red and smoking. One burned hand held a matchbook; the other hand slowly reached toward Simon. The figure lifted its disfigured head from the floor and stared at Simon with lidless eyes.

"Chapter three, Simple Simon."

And Simon the little chipmunk screamed and screamed.


	4. Chapter 4

**4**

Something wasn't right.

Alvin had arrived at the Overlook with a fresh sense of purpose, a mission to write an album as raw and real as ever was penned. He and Dave had chosen a room, set up a condenser mic and four-track recorder, and gathered piles and piles of notebooks. At first, the words had flowed out him. Alvin wrote about loss and love, the pressures of fame, and the ephemeral nature of life.

After the first week, though, Alvin found it hard to focus on the stories he wanted to tell. When he lifted his pen from the paper, he found words he didn't remember writing, references to balls and masquerades that weren't at all his style. Once there was an elaborate doodle of an croquet mallet _(?)_; Alvin KNEW that he would never normally draw something like that.

It wasn't just the writing that was off. The _sound_ of the recordings sounded thin somehow, like an old gramophone, though Dave insisted that the mix was perfect. Sometimes Alvin heard a clash of notes, as though another song was playing quietly underneath his own, though it was never there when he tried to show anyone. He was sure he had heard it, though. Something old and slow.

On the day that Simon disappeared, Alvin had been in the lobby, playing ukulele. He had been doing that more often, claiming he needed to practice. In fact, he preferred the lobby's wide open windows to the cramped hallways and rooms, especially with Jack _(be nimble, Jack be QUICK) _always roaming. He was trying to figure out a ukulele arrangement of a Pendereski song, when he saw the boy, watching him.

Danny. Theodore's friend. Geez, he was a creepy kid. Still, Alvin put on a smile and said, "Hey there, Danny. How's it goin'?"

Danny's dark eyes stared at him. "The hotel _stung _him."

What kind of answer was that? The kid had a screw loose, that much was clear. "You mean a bee? A bee stung Theodore?"

"No, the hotel. And Simon."

Alvin stood up. "What do you mean, Danny? Is he ok?

Danny mouth hung open and he struggled to find words. Finally he spoke.

"He hurt his brain."

* * *

It was Wendy, Danny's mother, who found Simon. They brought his shaking body into the chipmunks' bedroom and tried to get him to respond. But whatever they said or did, Simon would only stare off into space, whispering _"I have not any" _over and over in a choked voice. His eyes appeared to be seeing things that no one else could.

Wendy was clearly shaken. "Has he done this before?"

"No," said Dave, with bitterness in his voice. "Something scared the bejeezus out of him."

"The hotel," whispered Danny and Theodore, in unison.

"No," said Dave. "Jack. Jack was mad at Simon. He must have done something...threatened him or even..."

_(hit him)_

"Jack would never do that!" said Wendy. "Not since he got...he's been so good for so long."

"Well, he did something!" snapped Dave. "And now how are we supposed to record Simon's harmonies?"

"I don't care about the stupid album!" yelled Theodore, and Alvin realized that he felt the same. "What's wrong with Simon?"

"I'm going to find out," said Dave, standing up. "Does anyone know where Jack is?"

"He was going to clean your recording studio," said Wendy, "but…"

"I'm going to ask him about what happened," said Dave. "Alvin, Theodore, look after your brother. Maybe read him something from one of his books?"

"I haven't any," whispered Simon.

"Ok, Dave," said Alvin, feeling anxious. He didn't like the idea of Dave confronting Jack by himself, somehow, and was about to say so, but Danny spoke first.

"Don't go."

The voice was harsh and unfamiliar, and it turned everyone's head. Danny had his index finger outstretched and waggling it up and down; his speech was a croak.

"Don't go, Mr. Seville. Don't go to the studio."

It was Danny and yet not Danny. Alvin stared at the child, feeling more unnerved than ever, and had a sudden mental image of the hotel shifting to the shape of a cat. Sure, to humans, cats were sweet and fluffy, but when you were small, you saw clearly their sliver pupils, and their cruel smiles, and their long teeth. Things that seemed harmless could still kill.

All this Alvin wanted to say to Dave, and yet somehow nothing came out. Later, Alvin would replay this moment in his head over and over.

Hours went by. Dave didn't come back.

Alvin and Theodore did everything they could do keep themselves entertained, but it wasn't easy. Simon's shaky whispers filled the room with a constant source of dread, and Danny continued to shift between himself and his creaky-voiced alter-ego. Eventually Wendy took Danny back to the Torrance's room. At Theodore's request, she locked the door behind her.

Finally, Alvin could stand the waiting no longer. "I'm going after him."

"You CAN'T!" said Theodore. "Alvin, you don't know what this place is like! You start to see things that aren't there, you start to feel..."

"I've been here just as long as you have," snapped Alvin. "And if Dave is in trouble, I'm going to help him."

Theodore stared at him, then nodded his head. "Ok. I'm coming with you."

Alvin had not for one second expected that. "Really?"

"Really," said Theodore, though his body was already quivering. "We can't let ourselves be scared."

* * *

The two chipmunks slipped under the locked door and scampered through the hallway, which was dark and quiet. The brothers said nothing as they walked, listening to the changing sound as their clawed toes stepped from carpet to wood.

At the end of the hallway, there was a familiar sight. It was the Chipettes, three sisters who were the perennial rivals/crushes of the Chipmunks! Britney, Jeanette, and Eleanor were standing in a line, holding hands. Alvin's heart leapt. Finally, some friendly faces

_(?FACES?)_

There was something slightly...off about the faces of the Chipettes. Alvin couldn't quite put his paw on it, so he waved to them, a little hesitantly. The three girls waved back in unison, and their smiles grew wider

_(The smiles aren't right)_

That was it. Their smiles were a little too wide and a little strained, as though they had been posing for a photo for too long. And the eyes of the Chipettes showed no warmth or humor; they stared down Alvin and Theodore like owls, never blinking, never wavering. Britney, Jeanette, and Eleanor opened their mouths in unison and began to speak.

"Come sing with us, Alvin."

Theodore grabbed Alvin's hand, and Alvin knew his brother also sensed that something was wrong. It sounded like the Chipettes... yet in their helium tones there was a undercurrent of menace.

"Come sing with us forever and ever."

The girls took a step towards Alvin and Theodore and now Alvin saw that there was some sort of dark liquid dribbling from their eyes, thick like tar, blackening their cheeks.

"RUN PAST THEM!" Alvin screamed and he and Theodore began racing down the hallway. The girls screamed and began to _stretch_, extending themselves upward and outward like pulled taffy, their faces elongating into tortured masks. They were clearly trying to keep block the path, but Alvin was determined to make it to Dave. He sped past the trio's waiting arms and for a brief, horrifying second, he felt something cold and wet tighten around his leg. Then he pulled free and was running as he had never run before.

Alvin and Theodore sped round the corner and saw it: Room 237, the room they had set up as a studio. Alvin ran to the door and pounded.

"Dave! Mr. Jack!"

There was no answer. Alvin reached for the door but his paw faltered.

_The Hotel got them, _he thought. _It STUNG them, and if we walk in there, we'll be next._

But Theodore took a deep breath and twisted the knob and the two chipmunks tumbled into the room.

At the foot of the bed was a mangled corpse.


	5. Chapter 5

**5**

It was Mr. Jack. He was nearly unrecognizable - most of his head was now a crumpled mess of gore - but Theodore recognized the red velvet jacket of the caretaker. The little chipmunk turned from the sight and threw up all the mashed topatoes he had eaten for lunch.

"Dave?" Alvin said.

Dave was sitting on a stool, eyes closed, with specks of blood on his face and shirt. He was calming tuning a bass. At his feet was a ruined electric guitar, its neck snapped and dangling cords, its body covered with

_(Mr. Jack)_

"Dave," said Alvin slowly, as Theodore tried to get his voice working again. "What's going on?"

Dave's eyes flew open. "Hey fellas. Want to record something?"

"We need to get help, Dave," said Alvin. "Simon and Danny aren't well and Jack…"

"Jack disturbed the creative process," said Dave. There was a hazy look in his eyes. "He doesn't know that in the studio, the musician is king. I _showed _him, though. I _showed _him what Rock and Roll really means."

"Oh no," Theodore managed to squeak out. _Alvin we need to run we need to go, _he thought but his mouth wasn't up to the task.

"It's good, though," said Dave, grinning. "I feel like I've got inspiration again, like I can finally make something _real_. Hey, here's a bassline I just up with...I'm thinking of calling it "Murder in Reverse."

He began to play a growling bass riff, but stopped and turned his eyes to the two chipmunks. "Alvin...you don't seem happy for me."

Theodore grabbed Alvin's paw. Alvin began to stammer. "No, Dave, that...that's fantastic. We're just gonna go grab some food…"

"No," said Dave, shaking his head. "No, I need you to lay down some vocals. Vocals while they're still fresh."

"Oh Dave, you know, I'm pretty tired, maybe…"

"TIRED?" roared Dave Seville. He stood up and yanked the audio cord out of the bass. His face was red and Theodore could see veins on his forehead. "You think I ever got tired when I was in The Scatmen? When I played four shows a night? Do you have any idea what I gave up for you three?"

Alvin's voice caught in his throat, and Theodore forced himself to speak. "Of course, we appreciate…"

"No," said Dave. "No, you never appreciated me, or my music. Music is just some stupid _novelty _for you. But I'm the real deal. The rock lifestyle is in my blood. Ever since you three arrived, I've been pushed to the side. Cut off from _real _music. I couldn't even remember how to write a song…"

He stopped and ran his fingers through his hair. Then he threw back his head and laughed. It was a fast, high-pitched laugh that reminded Theodore of a hyena. Slowly, Dave returned his gaze to the chipmunks, who began backing toward the door. His eyes were wide and glassy.

"Kill your darlings," he said. "Every songwriter always says it. Why didn't I listen?"

He began taking off the bass strap.

"Kill your darlings and the rest will follow. Sex. Drugs. Rock and roll. That Manson notoriety. I just need my axe...I just need to SHRED!"

And now he was gripping the bass by its neck and raising the heavy wooden body above his head and Theodore was paralyzed with terror-

"COME ON!" screamed Alvin, and he yanked Theodore's arm as Dave swung the bass downward like an executioner. The blow missed Theodore by an inch, and suddenly he could move again. The chipmunks dove out the door and began running for their lives.

"COME BACK HERE YOU VERMIN!" screamed Dave. Theodore snuck a look behind and (_oh GOD) _Dave was right on their heels, grinning like a shark. Theodore ran like he had never run before, his lungs screaming with pain and the taste of vomit still fresh in his mouth. He and Alvin came to the bedroom door, and with horror Theodore remembered that it was still locked, but Alvin yelled, "DIVE!" and the two chipmunks lunged forward on their bellies and pushed their way underneath and through.

A harsh bang, a second later. "Boys! Open up in there!"

Theodore looked around the room. Simon was still there, sitting on the bed, shaking. Alvin ran to him.

"Simon! We have to go, NOW!"

The door shook again and again, with terrible pounding thuds. "KILL YOUR DARLINGS, THEY ALL SAY IT!" screamed Dave. "COVER OF THE ROLLING STONE!"

The wood of the door began to splinter, and Alvin ran to the window. "Theodore, we might need to leave Simon behind."

"No!" screamed Theodore, throwing his arms around Simon. "We stick together no matter what! We're the Chipmunks!"

And as he spoke, he felt Simon twitch. Theodore looked at his brother and saw, in his eyes, the struggle to come back. He had done something to trigger him...and suddenly, he knew what it was.

"Alvin! We need to sing to him!"

"Theodore, there's no time to…"

"ALVIN, PLEASE!" screamed Theodore. A long sliver of door flew across the room and now Theodore could see the shadow outside it.

Alvin nodded and closed his eyes. "Watch. Out. Cause here we come!" he sang, even as the door rang with noise. Theodore joined in.

"It's been a while but we're back in style. Get. Set. To have some fun!"

The bass guitar smashed clean through the door. Dave's face, gaunt and horrible, appeared in the hole.

"AAAAAAAAAAALVVVVVVVVVINNNNNNNNN!" he bellowed.

Alvin froze but Theodore kept his eyes on his Simon's face and continued singing, "We'll bring you action! And satisfaction! We're the Chipmunks-"

And suddenly Simon gasped as if emerging from water and sat up straight. "See Aich Eye Pee Em You En Kay!" he screamed. He looked around wildly. "Alvin! Theodore! What's going on?"

"No time to explain!" yelled Alvin. "Dave's trying to kill us, we have to go NOW!"

Simon took one look at the door and nodded. The three brothers forced the window sill open and looked out into the wintry night.

_If you go into the woods tonight you're in for a big surprise, _thought Theodore. From the window, he could see the forest, with its branches like claws. He hesitated. Simon seemed to be thinking along the same lines.

"You know," said Simon, "hypothermia is a very real concern…"

The door flew open with a smash and Dave was standing there, a toothy grin on his bloody face.

"Bing bang," he growled. "Walla walla bing bang."

The chipmunks dove out the window and ran.


	6. Chapter 6

**6**

Simon sprinted through the snow away from the Overlook hotel. He couldn't move as quickly as he wanted; he felt like he was waking up from a long and restless sleep. Whenever he tried to remember what he had been doing earlier that day, his mind closed _(NO!) _on the thought with a painful jolt.

Just as well, though, to focus on the present. Simon still didn't quite understand what was going on, but the sight of Dave's dead eyes had quickly convinced him that the peril was real. As the chipmunks ran down the steps, the front door of the hotel flew open and Dave ran out, still clutching his ruined bass by the neck.

"COME BACK HERE!" he yelled. "Simon! Theodore! AAAALVIN!"

"Let's go into the woods," yelled Alvin. "We can lose him in the woods."

"We...could…" gasped Theodore, "also...go...into...the hedge...maze…"

"No," said Alvin. "That's stupid."

The three ran through the forest at high speed, hearing behind them snapping twigs and Dave's screams. Simon found his mind racing as he ducked branches and brambles.

_What's the plan, Simon? You're domesticated. You can't survive out in these woods._

He didn't know. It was all he could do to place one foot in front of the other.

After an eternity of running, Simon noticed that Dave's shouts sounded farther away. Alvin seemed to have heard the same thing; he waved his brothers over towards a bush and motioned for them to hide behind it. There, the chipmunks crouched in the snow and tried to catch their breath, paws over their mouths to muffle the noise. They heard Dave's footsteps pass them...then continue on ahead...then eventually disappear into the night sounds of the forest.

"Ok," whispered Alvin, standing up. "Let's double back to the hotel. Find Danny and Wendy and warn them. Maybe look for a snowspeeder?"

"Do you think...we have time?" panted Theodore. "When Dave gives up...he'll head back there too."

"What choice do we have?" asked Alvin, who was already moving forward. "We can't stay out here all night, and we'll at least have a chance if…"

He stumbled and cried out in pain. Simon ran to his brother's side and saw that his left foot had disappeared into a hole. "Are you okay?"

"Ow ow ow!" said Alvin in a choked whisper. "Simon, my leg, it really hurts…"

"We'll pull you out," promised Simon, putting his shoulder under Alvin's arm. "Here, Theodore, help me…"

"Wait…"

"Now!" whispered Simon and he and Theodore pulled Alvin hard. There was another yelp of pain and Alvin's leg popped out of the hole. Moaning, Alvin clutched his ankle.

"I think I broke it," he said. "Can you help me get back?"

"Of course," Simon said calmly, but inside he was screaming. _We're so exhausted and we're going to be so slow, and sooner or later Dave will turn around and find us. And then we're doomed._

Their progress was as slow as Simon feared. With Simon and Theodore under each arm, Alvin hopped through the overgrowth, but they were constantly getting caught on branches and brambles, and Theodore in particular was tiring quickly. As they approached the edge of the forest, Simon felt Theodore falter.

"C'mon, Theodore," Simon muttered. "You can do it."

But Theodore sank down, causing Alvin and Simon to collapse as well. Together, the chipmunks laid on the snow, watching the distant light from the hotel peek through the trees.

"I'm sorry," gasped Theodore. "I'm going...I need...I'm going to try to call for help."

"No!" hissed Alvin. "The only one who will hear you is Dave."

"I'm not going to yell," Theodore said. "Danny has been teaching me how to speak with just my mind...to _shine_. Not many adults can hear...just his friend Mr. Halloran...and children and animals."

_He's lost it, _thought Simon, _but at this point, what harm can it do? Better to try to sound positive._ "Sure, Theodore. Give it a try."

Theodore took a deep breath and scrunched up his face, and suddenly Simon felt the inside of his mind explode into noise.

_SOMEONE HELP US HELP HELP HELP PLEASE PLEASE HELP!_

Simon and Alvin gasped in pain and clutched their heads. As he did so, Simon felt the memories of earlier begin to rush back, and he saw in his mind the burned body from the library, and it was all he could to keep from screaming.

_Simple Simon's gonna die, man_

Simon opened his eyes and saw that Theodore had passed out from the effort. Alvin was struggling to get up.

"Simon," Alvin coughed, "what do we do now?"

_Die, man._

Simon was about to respond when he heard a man's voice singing, slow and playful. His heart stopped.

Slowly, Dave Seville pushed through the needles of a fir tree. His lips were blue and his eyebrows and nose were already showing signs of frostbite, but he seemed not to notice. Dave looked down at the fallen chipmunks and began singing again. This time, Simon recognized the tune.

"You've been good, but you can't last. Merry Christmas, coming fast."

It was a Chipmunks song, but in Dave's wheezing voice it sounded like a funeral dirge. He raised the bass high over his head, and Simon thrust out his hands in terror.

"Wait, Dave! You don't have to do this!"

Dave laughed. "Yes, I do, Simon. I should have done this years ago. I'll be the official musician of the Overlook hotel, once they know how ROCK AND ROLL I am. Once they know I MEAN IT."

"But Dave," whispered Alvin, "we were a team!"

At this Dave's eyes changed, and he lowered the bass. For a moment, he looked like his old self again. Simon let himself feel hope...but then Dave was seized by a spasm that overtook his whole body. When it passed, his visage was again monstrous.

"Sorry, I've gone solo," snarled Dave. "I'm going to be a smash."

He raised the bass again _(!NO NO NO PLEASE NOOOOOOO )_

Suddenly, a large dark blur collided with Dave, hard. He fell backwards, the bass flying from his hands. The creature stepped with graceful speed atop the man and lowered its great head. Dave began to scream, not his low menacing growl, but a high-pitched wail. There was an awful sound of something tearing...and the scream abruptly stopped.

Simon stared into the darkness, trying to discern what exactly had happened, when the dark creature stepped forward into the beams of the hotel's light and the chipmunks saw their rescuer clearly for the first time.

"I knew," whispered Theodore, his eyes fluttering open, "that there were wolves in these woods."

The gray wolf, its face wet with blood, stared at the chipmunks for a moment. Then it nodded once to Theodore, turned regally, and disappeared into the night.

"What," said Alvin, "the fuck?"


	7. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Sylvia Mendes, of Silver Sound Studio, honestly didn't mind having a winter break from her rodent clients. Alvin could be a diva, Simon a killjoy; Theodore was sweet but easily distractible. And she wouldn't mind being away from their obnoxious squeaky voices.

Still, they paid well, and they brought publicity to the business. She was therefore a little relieved when she returned from her vacation and saw a letter addressed to her in Alvin's messy handwriting. _They'll be crawling back soon, _she thought. It was all well and good for the Chipmunks to dream about crafting a low-budget DIY album, but when they got that out of their system, her studio was where the real magic would happen. She opened the envelope and began to read.

_Dear Sylvia, I hope you are well. Were no longer at the hotel. Simon and Theodore and me made some friends Danny Wendy and Mr Halloran and are currently in Maine with them. Things got real bad Were doing better now._

_Weve been playing alot of music together. We wanted to send them to you and maybe you can give them to a radio station? _

_ Thanks,_

_ Alvin_

_ps we should have listened to you when you said dont go to the mountains_

Attached was a CD and a list of track names. Sylvia's sense of unease only grew when she looked at the names of the songs they had written: "Bloodlust," "The Burned Ghost," "Shine On," "The Moon Landing Was Obviously Faked," "None of Our Songs Use Bass and Here's Why," and "Lupus Ex Machina." _Maine? Bloodlust? What the hell is going on here?_

Sylvia looked through the rest of her mail, hoping that another letter would clarify the situation, but no other envelope bore Alvin's handwriting. The only thing that seemed like it might be related was a postcard from the hotel where the Chipmunks had stayed...but it had no message and no return address.

Sylvia stared at the image on the postcard. It was an old, black-and-white photograph of a swing band playing in a ballroom...and was her imagination, or did the smiling man playing the upright bass bear an uncanny resemblance to Dave Seville?

As Sylvia stood there, goosebumps rising on her arms, she thought she could almost hear a song, sweet and slow, a song that sounded like an old jazz ballad with the vocals pitched up an octave.


End file.
